jour de pluie
by Just the Wind
Summary: There are two types of people in the world- those who look into the sky and see fantastic shapes, and those who just see clouds.


**A/N: Hello everyone! I wrote this on vacation. I was trying to write a very specific dialog that said nothing and everything at the same time. I'm quite pleased, actually, with how it turned out. Let me know what you think!**

"Look up." She says it when the sky is pale pink, streaked through with dashes of gold measured in by a liberal, omnipresent hand. The new day is rising in the sky, the aqua of her eyes reflecting the rose tones of the heavens. "Look up."

He laughs a deep, baritone laugh an takes her small, dainty hand in his, "I love you." And she smiles a pretty, plastic smile and leans in for a perfect kiss that could be pictured on the cover of any romance novel.

She can't help but notice that his eyes never tilt towards the majestic sky.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She grabs his hand and it's warm and real, a map of lines that supposedly reveal his future- here, his life span, long and deep; here, his love, but he tugs her hand and wraps his fingers closed around her wrist before she can decipher its meaning. She pulls, laughing and skipping and smiling so grandly that her entire being exudes sunshine and happiness.

"Hurry up, Lor!" She giggles, the sound musical. She pulls on his arm in the direction of the only blemish on this sea of emerald. "Come on, slowpoke!" Her words are light, flying from her lips gracefully, as if they contained no more substance than the shimmering, iridescent bubbles she blew as a child. Each drawn out vowel drifts lazily over to him, surrounding his head and filling his ears with happy sounds, "pop, pop, pop!" Upon reaching him, the swirling oil slicks of colors disappear, melting into thin air.

Pop.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They reach the spread, a picnic completed by a wicker basket, and she beams sunshine at him. He smiles dimly as she pulls him down, offering him a host of sandwich meats, three kinds of bread, mayo, mustard, cheese in any variety imaginable.

"Wow," he says and she shines agreement, "it's so nice."

She falters, flickering, "do you not love it?"

"Of course I love it, darling, just like I love you," he reassures. And she smiles as he leans in to kiss her.

She doesn't close her eyes. She's terrified of forgetting every freckle across the bridge of his nose.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Look," she squeals, "a bunny. Or, maybe, a mighty dragon devouring a brave knight. Depends how you tilt your head."

The grass tickles the backs of her pale, creamy thighs, causing a lyrical lilt in her voice. The ground is lush, comfortably supporting her tiny frame- though slightly damp.

"How can you see that?" He asks, tone clipped. The wind moans a soft answer to a different question but she feigns deafness and, patiently as if guiding a child, points her finger to the sky, and almond shaped nail indicating the cloud she's observing.

"See, that one there." He shakes his head. "Maybe if you squint?" She tries, "because, you know, everything's better blurred."

"There are no bunnies or horses or any of that shit in the sky, Lucy," he sighs. Tears spring to her eyes because there are, if he'd only look hard enough.

"Just look up!" She pleads, voice filled with desperation, "look up."

"I did, Lucy, and all I saw was clouds," he says tiredly.

And, without another word, he stands up and walks away.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Grey clouds pour angry rain on her pale, immobile form.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Bloody hell, Lucy, it's raining cats and dogs and we've been looking for you for hours."

He finds her there, on the drenched earth, emerald blades of grass crying sparkling diamonds on her moist skin.

She doesn't answer.

"Lucy?" He says, and, when she stays still, he breaks into a run that traverses the remaining meters between them quickly, "Lucy, we've all been frantic. I was so worried!"

She maintains her silence. He scoops her into his arms, her body limp and blue eyes glassy with pain.

"Luce," he whispers, walking towards the shelter of a nearby tree.

"Aren't storms pretty, Lor? Look up, look at the sky." Her voice makes his heart stop, the fragile notes of a careful touch across the taut strings of a harp.

"Lorcan's not here, Lucy, it's me, Lysander." He says carefully, carefully keeping the disappointment at not being recognized out of his tone.

"Oh," she murmurs faintly, "but you look so similar."

"Twins generally do," he reminds her with a weak smile, "and storms are beautiful, especially near nightfall when the sky is darker."

She stays quiet, nestling herself into his chest. He realizes that she's shivering, violent tremors he'd mistaken as sobs wracking her frame. Wordlessly, he slides down the strong trunk of the tree that he's taken them both to, until he is seated. She curls against him and he removes his jacket to cover her the best he can with it.

"Sometimes," she says in the smallest voice he's ever heard, "you can think you love someone when, in all reality, you know nothing about them."

"I know, Luce," he says, smoothing her hair, "I know."

He carries her back to the house, tucks her into bed, and then walks back in the pouring rain to gather the remains of her ruined picnic.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She wakes, rising up from her bed and floating to the window to catch a glimpse of the navy velvet sky. Gripped with a desire she can't comprehend, consumed by thoughts she can't unravel into sense, she crosses the cold hardwood of her floor and creaks open the door.

Years of experience have instilled a practiced nimbleness into her bare feet and she descends the rickety staircase without a sound.

He's at the bottom, just like she had somehow known he would be.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He takes in the sight of her, drinks in the image, her clothed in nothing but a white slip that somehow looks both scandalously sheer and incredibly childlike in the silver moonlight. She looks like she might break if he reaches out an incredulous hand to touch her.

He tenderly wraps a quilt around her thin shoulders. She relaxes into the warmth and puts her small hand into his. It fits perfectly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Aren't the stars breathtaking?" She asks him, glowing with a light that almost seems celestial.

"Absolutely," he responds, eyes trained on the array of constellations.

"Sometimes," she says, voice soft with uncertainty "I think you can love someone when you know nothing about them."

"I think that too, Luce," he breathes.

"I think I might love you, Lysander. Is that crazy?"

"Not in the slightest," he responds, "I love you too."

They watch the sun rise in the most comfortable silence either has ever experienced.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

And, of course, they live happily ever after.

**A/N: Please, please, please, don't favorite without reviewing!**


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